Eden Plague - Latest Edition (4 page)

With Miss Wallis, had she stayed dead, he’d have had justification. She’d had a weapon, she’d fired on him. In fact, the weapon should still be down there, all the proof he needed. Elise had bolted out his still-open side door. She’d had no time to detour to the basement.

No, he had to either deal with the Agency, or he had to run.

Flight was an option. Disappear, get out of the country. Slip across to Mexico before the alarm went out, from there to points south. Take a tramp freighter to South Africa maybe, sell his skills. Private security firms there like guys with combat experience. They’d get him a new identity, if he was willing to be one of their quasi-mercenary security contractors and kick back part of his pay. He’d made some good contacts in the Green Zone in Baghdad. The Zone had been a patchwork of embassy territories then, with South Africans, Pakistanis, Sri Lankans, Philippinos, even Gurkhas providing security for each little walled compound.

He shook himself out of the fog of reminiscence. He had to do something, he had to act, or he was going to be acted upon. But he didn’t want to run. It was not in his nature.

His phone rang.

He stared at it stupidly for a couple of rings. Nobody called his home phone but telemarketers and work, and he didn’t have the kind of job that called him after hours.

He heaved himself up and grabbed the handset, looked at the number. He didn’t recognize it but it was 703. Local, Northern Virginia. Telemarketers had other numbers, 866 or 877 or weird ones from foreign countries that tried to scam people. He decided to answer.

Maybe they wanted to talk, whoever ‘they’ were. Maybe he wanted to listen. Maybe there was some way out of this mess.

“Hello?”

“Dan?” It sounded like Elise.

“Yeah. Elise?”
Bitch. Shoot at me then run away when I try to be nice.

“Yes, Dan. We have a little time. They don’t know what happened yet. When they do, they will probably want to clean up and they’re going to insist you join up. If you don’t play ball, they’ll either do you the hard way, frame you or disappear you.” She had a trace of Texas in her voice now, if he knew his Westerns.

“About like I thought. What are we gonna do about it?” He suddenly had a feeling she was in a tough spot, too, having failed to recruit him, and lost her boss as well.
Or maybe she wanted out of their grip. She’d said she’d had no choice. Maybe I misjudged her.

Or maybe it's all a crock of bull.

“I want to talk with you, but not on an unsecure line, and not at the wrong end of a gun. Especially not when you’re all amped up like you are now. Somewhere a bit more friendly.”

He wondered at the tone of her voice, no-nonsense but with an undertone of concern. Or was he imagining it? “How do we do that? You could be armed next time, and
I
can’t come back from the dead like you can.”

“I didn’t come back from the dead, I wasn’t dead. I can be killed. It’s just harder. And it still hurts to be shot.”

“So you say. How and where? And don’t you think they
are
listening right now?”

“Possibly.” She sighed, audibly. “Look, I’m sick of being their slave. I have to get out from under, no matter how dangerous it is. So we have to meet, and we have to do it soon, before they can keep me from giving you everything. And I need your help too. You must have contacts. You spec ops guys always keep in touch.”

“Maybe. So if they
are
listening, why don’t they cut this line?”

She laughed, shaky. “You know, it’s not like on TV. They can do a lot but they’re only human. Don’t give them too much credit.”

“Or too little.”

“Yeah. And even if they could, they would want to hear where we are going to meet. They'll be waiting if they can.”

“Well, you’re the secret agent,” Daniel said sarcastically. “How do we do it without getting caught?”

“Daniel, I’m just a scientist that happened to get cancer and got sucked into this. I’m not a field operative. But I picked up a few things in the last couple of years, so here’s what we’re going to do. Go to a nearby shopping center drugstore. Don’t tell me which one. Go buy a fresh prepaid cell phone. Call this number.” She rattled off a phone number. “Add the number of shots I fired at you to the digit in that position. Get it?”

"Got it."
Right
, he thought.
Add four to the fourth digit.
He wrote it down on a scrap of paper, stuck it in his pocket. He couldn’t trust his memory.

“Call that number in half an hour exactly. First and last number you ever dial on that phone. We should be able to talk freely on that connection for long enough to arrange a meet. As soon as we have, you stomp on the phone and throw the pieces into the nearest storm drain. Got it? And do the same with your own cell phone, right now. They might be able to track it.”

“Okay…”

“And don’t go home after that. Take anything valuable you can carry, but somewhere along the line you will have to ditch your own vehicle. I don’t think they have a tracker on it but they will eventually. And get as much cash as you can out of just one ATM near the drugstore. Then drive away and make that call.”

“Got it.” He thought.
I've got to keep my focus
. It was getting hard. His head hurt.

She hung up.

He slammed an energy drink and swallowed two black-market but genuine Ritalin. He stuck the bottle in his pocket, grabbed an old rucksack and started packing. Magazines and ammo, a box of granola bars, three bottles of water, the other two cans of energy drink, his work badge and ID, and his runaway packet containing twenty grand cash in several foreign currencies and two passports, one his, one Canadian with a different name. He wasn’t a covert field operative but any special ops guy learns a few things in the black world.

Also, he wouldn’t visit that ATM. He grabbed his travel Bible, tossed it into the rucksack. He might need it, and he was sure to need the twelve hundred dollars he kept zipped inside it. It made him feel better anyway.
Sorry, Lord, and please help me out of this one.
He threw in a few other things he thought he might want.

He put on a hoodie, then a windbreaker. It was still cold on the East Coast, especially at night, and the sun was going down. He threw his laptop into the ruck, too. Then he booted up his desktop computer and put in a suicide code, watched the special software start to burn his hard drive one sector at a time.
They won't get anything off that.
Then he smashed his cell phone.

He also grabbed his M4 in its case, ten full magazines, his Remington 870 pump shotgun, and an Army surplus ammo box, heavy with cartridges. The last thing he tossed into his van was his aid bag. Everything imaginable from band-aids to Benzedrine, scalpels to syringes.

Then he did as Elise had said, more or less. He drove to the second-nearest drugstore to his house in case “they” had been listening, and bought a disposable phone with cash. It was all cash from now on.

Back in the van, he drove out of town on the main road heading west as he waited for the half hour mark. He pulled over into a gas station and filled up. As soon as he was done, he drove around a corner onto a side street, parked, and then dialed the number.

“Yes?” He heard Elise’s voice.

“It’s me. I’m mobile, I got money and some supplies.” He could hear traffic sounds behind her. He figured she was at a pay phone.
Not many of those around anymore.

“All right. You know the Iron Saddle?”

“Biker bar, on Route One south of Quantico.”

“Yeah. Meet me there, one hour.”

“Roger wilco.”

She hung up, and he started wending his way south, then back eastwards to pick up US-1 at Dumfries north of Quantico Marine base. He was glad to stay in Virginia, where it was legal to carry around loaded firearms.

He laughed to himself, humorlessly. He was a recent murderer, or at least a manslaughterer, and no matter how justified it seemed, he had lost control, he was guilty, but he didn’t want to become a guest of the state just yet. And maybe he could do something to make up for it later. Some kind of penance.

Right. I keep trying to convince myself of that. The serpent doesn’t believe it either.

Elise put the pay phone receiver down and walked casually back to the SUV parked at the side of the old station. She rooted around in the glove compartment and came up with a thick permanent marker. In back and front she performed some simple alterations to the license plates – a K became an R, a C became a G, a 4 became a 9. It might foil a computerized webcam-image search.

She drove through a fast-food place, a one-off frosty-freeze that didn’t have any security cameras as far as she could see. A couple thousand more calories went into her gullet, helping to rebuild her torn flesh.

Driving away, she wended slowly southward toward the rendezvous, thinking, trying to formulate a plan.
I have to find a way to give it to him,
she thought.
It will improve his mental state, the PTSD his file talked about, and fix his lingering injuries. The trick will be passing it without him freaking out.

Then the two of us will have it instead of just me.

She thought about the results of the treatment. With her two female chimps, Bobo and Mandy, as soon as they both had the same strain they became inseparable, like littermates though they were unrelated. She wondered whether it would work the same way – did the virus somehow connect people in proportional proximity? That is, were those who passed it directly more likely to form bonds with the recipient? If so, did she want to be bonded to Daniel Markis? Or him to her?

But what choice do I have? Needs must when the Devil drives.
She laughed at herself.
Or the Eden.

She got to the Iron Saddle early, parked on the side and went in. She felt out of place with her business casual but most of the looks she drew were appreciative, not hostile – except for a few of the biker chicks. She watched one slug her man in the gut for looking and he laughed, spinning her around and slapping her on the butt.

She took a seat at the bar, shot a pleading look at the leather-clad bearded bartender. He had kind eyes.

He came over promptly but politely, leaning in close. “You all right?” he said, just loud enough to hear over the hubbub.

“Maybe. Not really my crowd, but I’m meeting a friend. Give me a diet Coke and keep these hound dogs off, will you?” Already she could see them lining up to make their passes.

He nodded, said “Play along, then.” As soon as he saw she understood, he pecked her on the lips and winked.

His beard tickled her face.
This should keep them off me for a while. Jesus, how quick I play the whore. I almost wish I really could. Haven’t been with a man in years.
The smell of him excited her in spite of herself and she shrugged away, blinking.
Damn
.
They’re right about that near-death arousal. But I'll do just about anything right now to get away from the Company. Even kiss a few frogs  in search of my prince.
“Having a good night, sweetie?” she asked loudly.

He nodded, “Yeah, pretty good.” He shot a couple of bikers a glare and they backed off. Then he smiled knowingly at her and went back to his bartending. He probably thought he’d just gone to the head of the pass line.

Whatever.

She thanked him with her eyes, then checked her watch. Five till. Looked around, hoping Daniel would show up early. Hoping they’d have a chance, make a chance, to get away. It was a fantasy, to escape with her chosen white knight.

She’d subtly steered Jenkins toward Daniel Markis. Unlike all the other spec-ops files they’d looked at, Markis wasn’t a killer by trade. He was a healer, a combat lifesaver.
Hopefully that will make him different. Maybe just different enough.

She checked her watch again, then turned to look out the front window. Her view was obscured by neon beer and motorcycle brand names but the big man in the dark suit was clear enough.

He burst through the front door, high-tech blunderbuss in hand, but by that time she was off the bar stool and scurrying for where she hoped the back door would be. Chaos erupted behind her.

***

Daniel passed the Marine Corps museum in the dark, the blazing spire on the roof reminiscent of the flag-raising on Iwo Jima. His grandfather had been there; Gunnery Sergeant Donald James Markis, USMC. He suppressed a strong impulse to turn into the parking lot. To put off this rendezvous for as long as he could. Driving south on US-1 through the cold quiet in his familiar musty van, time seemed suspended for a little while.

He wished he had a cigarette. Since he didn’t, he tortured himself with imagination. He thought of the last time he’d smoked one, with Gramps as he was dying of emphysema in hospice. DJ had helped him out of the oxygen rig and onto the balcony, to suck down one last forbidden coffin nail before they said good night.

I should have said goodbye.

His eyes teared, and he squeezed them with thumb and forefinger.
Goodbye, Gramps. Maybe I’ll see you soon.

He realized he hardly cared at this point. he didn’t think he had much to live for. His brain was messed up, like his life. He barely held onto his job on Fort Belvoir, trying desperately to keep up with even the light workload they gave him. Hanging out with the other retired disabled veterans, green and maroon and black berets and tabs and coins sitting in their sterile cubes and offices, marking time, milking their security clearances for a few more bucks. Staring at his own beret perched on the shelf above his computer screen, the Pararescue flash with its guardian angel, cradling the world in its arms, a symbol of what he was and never would be again. Reminiscing war stories. Trying to keep his hand in.

Trying to starve the serpent.

Trying to look himself in the mirror every morning, knowing he was useless. They wouldn’t let him put his hands on a patient, wouldn’t let him practice his medical craft. He couldn’t even drive an ambulance, much less work trauma, for fear of his PTSD. Just push papers. Be a consultant.